


Driving Stick

by redletters



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Bedsharing, M/M, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redletters/pseuds/redletters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob Benson and Pete Campbell go on a road trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driving Stick

**Author's Note:**

> FOR #12

"I'm calling New York immediately," Pete said. "This is absurd. Meredith? This is Pete Campbell, one of the partners of this establishment, which people seem to have forgotten amid this little Charge of the Light Brigade. I need to speak with Roger Sterling on a matter of extreme personal business importance. ...Both, Meredith! It's business and it's personal!"

Roger picked up after seven seconds. Pete counted them. His voice was flat, like a porkpie hat someone had sat on. "Pete! What."

"What yourself! What the hell do you think you're playing at, sending me off on a week-long Bataan death drive with that degenerate confidence huckster?"

"The road trip was your idea, and a very good one, might I say. It'll give us a lot of credibility with GM, and I hope-" was that new tone in his voice a warning? "-get a lot of good regional ad ideas flowing."

"It most certainly was not my idea! I had planned a pleasant coastal cruise with Bonnie and a six-pack of Corona, easing the top down and taking the curves nice and slow – not spending all day trapped in a tin box with Robin the Boy Wunderkind and his roaming knees."

"Well, Bob's our autos accounts man," Roger said mildly.

"This company disgusts me," Pete said.

"I have every faith in you."

"Really?" Pete said.

But Roger had hung up.

**

Pete walked into the San Bernadino Enterprise Rent-a-Car and found Bob Benson already there, leaning against the desk casually like he didn't have two perfectly functional legs. It was hot, the sun was orange, and the reception area was linear and gray. Pete's head hurt.

"Pete!" Bob Benson said, sounding delighted. He always sounded delighted to see him. Why couldn't Trudy ever sound like that when she saw him? She'd gone to one of those schools that was supposed to teach women how to be happy and pleasant. Instead, it seemed like every time they talked she had a different opinion than him. What a waste of money.

"Don't talk to me," Pete said. He put on his sunglasses. They were new. Bonnie had helped him pick them out at the Lacoste on the Boulevard, when he thought they'd be taking this trip together. She said they made him look sophisticated. Of course Pete was already very sophisticated, but a little extra panache never hurt. Many people, including Roger Sterling himself, understood this. But he'd like to see Roger Sterling pull off tortoiseshell!

"I'll drive," Bob Benson said. He smiled at the plain brown-haired girl behind the desk, who simpered up at him. "I've already picked up the keys, so we're all ready to go."

Pete glowered at him over the rims of his sunglasses. "Oh, please," he said.  
Bob Benson was dangling the keys from his right hand, the keychain pinched between his thumb and first finger, holding them out at chest level. He could have been offering them to Pete or holding them away. Pete plucked them out of Bob Benson's hand, then turned around and strode in an impressive and confident manner towards the parking lot. Let the girl look at a real successful ad man for a change.

The car was a stick.

He opened the passenger door and climbed inside superciliously.

Bob Benson was always trying to trip him up with confusing mechanics. It was one of Pete's least favorite things about him.

**

"There's a map in the glove compartment," Bob Benson said. He kept his eyes on the road, which Pete approved of. "I thought we could take the highway up the Pacific Coast before heading east inland."

"It's supposed to be beautiful," Pete said darkly.

Bob Benson didn't say anything. He flicked his eyes over to Pete and back.

Pete huffed and took out the map.

They floated through LA, and Pete leaned back and watched the concrete architecture of the city slide past the window. He felt relaxed and happy, like Omar Khayyam looking on his fabled kingdoms of the East. Wealthy, healthy and wise, a proud conqueror.

"Where are we staying tonight?" Bob Benson said, looking at his watch.

Pete said nothing. He realized he'd forgotten to check with Dawn before leaving.

"Pete?"

"We'll find somewhere spontaneous. It's the romance of the West," Pete snapped.

**

As it grew dark they finally drove into a small town, on the Nevada border. The sky was faint blue, and the city's lights were gold: Pete could see Las Vegas, a puddle of luminance in the basin of the horizon. Grand Canyon park loomed dark and green at their backs.

Bob Benson circled the town centre, which was only two and a half streets. They passed three casinos, but no hotels.

"I guess we could keep driving," Pete said dubiously. The town had been the only settlement they'd passed in an hour and a half, and he was hungry.

"One of the casinos will have rooms," Bob Benson said.

Pete approved of that idea. He was the kind of person who really should have slept in a casino room by now.

The keys jingled in Bob Benson's pocket as he got out and closed the car door. The air was warm and smelled like grass and asphalt. The nearest casino was nearly empty, and when Bob left to bring in their things from the car, Pete requested a room on far sides of the hotel. "We only have twenty rooms," the manager said, looking slightly baffled. "There aren't really different sides."

"Well, I'll take whatever you've got, so long as it's far away from him," Pete said.

This wasn't difficult to understand, and the manager quickly acceded to his reasonable and politely phrased request.

He was feeling magnanimous, so when Bob Benson returned with the suitcases Pete took his own and said, "Why don't we eat dinner together at the casino?"

The waitress, a pretty blonde who Pete was surprised to see looked over 30, brought them a free martini as they looked over the menu.

"I'll have the steak," Pete said.

"Same," Bob Benson said, and folding his menu, caught sight of the clock on the wall. "Damn! I'm just going to make a phone call," he said.

Pete finished his drink and ordered another. He realized he should maybe be checking in on Bob Benson. What if he was calling Chevy to undermine him at GM? Or calling the head office to ensnare him in a plot somehow? Pete stood up and crept out of the restaurant, and over to the phone booths. Bob Benson was talking in an unnaturally cheerful voice - lies and deceit already in the making! But after a moment his tone shifted abruptly, and Pete leaned in to hear his words. "He sounds like he's getting so big, Joanie, I can't believe he's about to start school already..."

Pete crept back to their table.

Why was Bob Benson calling Joan at home???

He decided to just brazen it out, but when Bob Benson returned to the table he said, "Joan says hi! I try to call once a week to check in and see how baby Kevin is doing."

"I see," Pete said. Yeah right. More likely Bob Benson had some kind of scheme and was using Joan for his own nefarious purposes. He leaned in and made very purposeful eye contact. "Well, as we've discussed, you just knock yourself out as long as you leave me out of it."

Bob Benson looked confused. "Okay," he said.

After the meal, Bob Benson tried to pay, but Pete stopped him. "No, no. This one's on me."

"It's on the same expense account," Bob Benson said.

"That's not the – dammit, that isn't the point. Why can't you just – "

"Sorry," Bob Benson said. "Let's have another drink."

Pete leaned back and smiled charmingly and in a cosmopolitan fashion at the waitress. She probably wasn't used to important New York ad men passing through. Tonight they were the only people at the bar under 70. Any businessmen who came through here were probably from Salt Lake City or Denver, and frankly, if Pete said so himself, screw Denver.

She noticed his look and came over. "Would you two like another drink?"  
"I'd like another drink, and maybe a little something on the side," Pete said smoothly. "What time do you get off shift?"

Her face flattened. "I'm closing out your tab, and if you try to pull anything I'm calling the manager."

"I hate this place and I'm going to bed," Pete said, standing up.

**

In the morning Pete loaded up his breakfast buffet plate with hash browns and sausage. Bob was sitting with a glass of fresh orange juice (where had he gotten that?) and listening sympathetically to the morning waitress.

"It sounds like he doesn't really appreciate what you do," Bob said. "Have you tried telling him how you feel?"

"Do you mind?" Pete said to the girl.

"Whoops!" she said, and moved to make space for him. "Thanks for listening," she said to Bob. "Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all."

Pete bit angrily into a hash brown. It was soggy. He dropped it on his plate in disgust.

They were an hour out of the city when Bob said, "I noticed you having some trouble driving." He was still looking at the road, as the red hills rose up around them.

"Oh, did you notice that?" Pete said. "Did you really? Did you notice that when you sent me out to die in front of Chevy?"

A flicker of self-pleased victory passed over Bob's face before he said, "Yes, I did."

"Thanks for your support," Pete sneered. He looked out the window. Stupid desert. No wonder nobody lived out here.

"My point is that - I've been hearing things from GM." Pete looked back at Bob, who drummed the wheel lightly before continuing, "They're thinking about bringing us on board for a few more accounts. Or possibly another big one."

"Well, that's excellent news."

"The only thing is, they want to know we really understand what they do."

"I hope you haven't given them reason to doubt our commitment to their business."

"Pete," Bob said, "you've got to learn to drive stick."

**

They crossed into Arizona for half an hour, and Bob pulled into the first gas station they found to fill up before they hit the Utah border and prices went up. Pete stayed in the car. There was no reason for him to get out. The sooner they got moving again, the sooner this trip would be over. Bob pumped conscientiously, and walked into the shop to pay. After a few minutes he returned, holding a bag of potato chips.

"Want some?" Bob said. "They were on sale."

Pete declined. Bob shrugged and put the unopened bag between them in the cup holder.

The landscape in Utah became bright red and rugged. Pete pictured himself as a lone ranging cowboy, riding through the wilderness. For dinner he'd cook a tin of baked beans over an open campfire - no, a rabbit that he had shot and killed himself. No, a whole deer! His helpful Indian friend would help him skin it and teach him the mystic ways of the desert. Utah was beautiful.

"Bob, I've been thinking about what you said this morning," Pete said. "I don't think we partners in New York have fully appreciated your hard work with GM. So let me be the first to say, well done!" He patted Bob's arm in gracious appreciation. "I told the others you'd do well in Detroit."

"I know just how much you fought for me," Bob said. His expression was open and guileless. "Maybe after lunch you can give driving a shot, and I can give you some pointers."

Pete tried driving on the way up to Idaho, while Bob said reassuring things next to him.

"Race car drivers like manual, for example," Bob said. "It's harder but try to feel the movement of the car through the stick."

"There's a reason they call it horsepower," he added a few minutes later.

The car stalled out when Pete tried to change gears. "This is a conspiracy," he said.

**

When it got dark Bob took over driving, and they got into Boise just before ten. They pulled into the first hotel Bob spotted: neither of them felt like going into the city center that night, and every restaurant they passed had already been closed. Pete went in to the reception desk while Bob parked.

"Busy weekend!" the manager said. He was about Pete's age, and like Pete imagined he might be if he'd had the misfortune to be born in Idaho: extremely competent but uncivilized and unpolished. "You in town for the convention?"

"No, just passing through," Pete said. "We'll take two single rooms, please."

"I'm afraid we only have the one room left," the manager said. "It's a busy weekend, because of the convention."

Pete leaned on the desk with a charming and conspiratorial smile. "I'm sure you can find something," he said.

"We only have the one room," the manager said. "And I'm going off shift in six minutes, so make up your mind fast."

"Fine," Pete said.

Bob came into the lobby with the suitcases.

There was no elevator, and they walked up two flights of stairs. "I don't know what the hell kind of convention there would even be in Boise," Pete said. "Potatofest '68." He unlocked the door. "I'll take the – oh."

The room had a minibar, a screened window with taupe curtains, a closet, a small television and one double bed. There was no telephone. Pete looked behind the door. There was nothing else in the room, not even a cot.

"Is everything all right?" Bob said, coming up behind him. "– Oh."

"I'll go speak with the manager," Pete said, and sped down the stairs. But he had left already. Pete stomped up the stairway step by step and fumed. "How can he just go straight off duty?" he said. "What if there was a fire? Or a robbery?"

"Do you want to leave?" Bob said.

Pete sighed. Bob was rightly looking to him for guidance on how to deal with this setback, and it was up to him to make this important call. "No, we've got a long day of driving ahead of us," he said. "No sense running around looking for room in the inn. The tiny, shitty, provincial inn."

"Sure," Bob said.

"I'm going to, you know," Pete said, and went into the bathroom. It seemed clean enough. Everything would be fine once he had a drink.

**

When he walked back into the room, Bob had nearly finished unpacking. As Pete watched, Bob took out his shirt, unfolded it carefully, and draped it over the back of the chair. He took his suit to the closet, where he hung the blazer up on one of the wood hangers. He checked that the blazer shoulders lined up with the ends of the hanger, then took another hanger out and folded the trousers over it, and smoothed them down to make sure the legs were aligned and hanging evenly.

"You know, we still have another two days of driving before we meet with anyone," Pete said.

"It's important to hang suits up every night," Bob said, "so they don't develop creases." He hung up his shirt behind the suit. "Of course, if you fold your clothes properly when you're packing, they shouldn't be creasing anyway, but things shift around and it's impossible to make sure. You see?" He smoothed down the front trouser leg again, where a slight fold was showing an inch away from the seam. "Also, it lets the clothes air out so they don't smell like suitcase." He looked down at Pete's leather weekend bag. "I can do yours, if you like."

Pete thought about this. "That would be fine."

While Bob unpacked Pete's suitcase, Pete opened the minibar. There was nothing there but a bottle of mineral water and three Cokes. He sighed. "Well, we're going to have to go out if we want anything an Amish wouldn't drink," he said, and took out the water.

The hotel bar was closed, but the doorman was able to source a bottle of rye for $20. "Highway robbery", Pete muttered, and filled up a bucket of ice from the machine. Back in the room, he looked appreciatively at his clothing in the closet; whatever else Bob Benson was, he was extremely good at suit maintenance. Pete loosened his tie, took two glasses from the top of the minibar and filled them with whisky and ice, and handed one to Bob.

"To accounts to come," he said. Bob looked down as they clinked glasses.

Pete took a long sip, then put the drink on the left-hand bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. Except for a brief stop in Cedar City for gas and sandwiches they'd been in the car all day; Pete unlaced his shoes and kicked them off, and sat down at the head of the bed to stretch out his legs. After a long drink and a look over at Pete, Bob also took off his shoes, lining them up neatly next to the door, and sat on the other side of the bed. He looked over at Pete's posture, then stretched out his own legs.

"I can take the floor," he offered, looking down into his drink.

"Don't be foolish," Pete said. "You'll do your back in and you need to drive tomorrow."

"I can't let you sleep on the floor," Bob said.

"I don't intend to," Pete said. Bob thought he was being generous. But Bob Benson wasn't in a position to be generous, Pete was!

"I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

Pete waved him off, reassuring him. "Don't be foolish." He sipped his drink. "Anyway, don't think it's anything special. We did it all the time at Deerfield."

"That's right, you went to prep school," Bob said. He sounded almost reverent. "What was it like there?"

"It was the first happy home in my life," Pete said. He was a little surprised to hear himself say it, but it was true.

"I thought it would be happy," Bob said.

"There was a real camaraderie among the boys that you just don't get these days," Pete said. He took a swig harshly, like he thought John Wayne probably would have if John Wayne was reminiscing about his prep school days. "We all had each others' backs, you know. There was none of these political machinations you see in business today - just a simple, true respect for brotherhood and loyalty. If Osborne left campus to see his girl, the whole floor would swear blind he'd been playing poker all night with us. When Niedermeyer accidentally shot the headmaster's hound in the leg, we all testified he hadn't even been on that hunting trip. A triumph for one was a triumph for all, a failure for one was a failure for all. The world just doesn't work like that any more. It's corrupt and scrabbling." Pete sighed. He didn't really expect Bob to understand - how could he? If he didn't know the heights, he couldn't understand the fall - but it felt good to express his important feelings. "I need another drink."

Bob scrambled up to pour another rye before Pete could move.

When he handed the refilled drink to Pete, their fingers touched. Bob's hand was warm under his own, and the side of his finger was wet from the cold condensation on the glass. But after a moment Bob pulled back, and sat back on his side of the bed.

"I'm going to change," Pete said. He went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth and put on his pyjamas. They were his 'travelling' pyjamas: not his most comfortable pair (those were his blue cotton duck pyjamas, which now only reminded him of Cos Cob and failure), but his most self-confident and assertive ones, a rich dark red satin. He came out holding his clothes. Bob made a choked noise.

"I, ah, forgot to pack mine," Bob said.

Pete knew that Bob in reality didn't have the social background to fully understand pyjamas, but he didn't want to embarrass him. "I won't be offended by your underpants," he said.

"Thank you," Bob said.

Pete politely turned the other way and finished his drink while Bob took off his shirt and tie, and hung them up. When he turned back around he saw that Bob had hung up Pete's clothes as well. He also saw that Bob was wearing blue briefs and a tight white undershirt, which he only noticed because Bob was turning off the light and so caught Pete's eye.

Pete set his drink down and turned on his side in the dark. Bob slid under the covers next to him.

"So, where did you go to school?" Pete said.

"Oh, I, ah," Bob said. "I'd rather hear more about yours."

So Pete told him stories about his roommate Dorfman and their hijinks together. Pete was happy; the drink was a good drink and he had to readjust his picture of Bob Benson yet again. There was no question he was a skilled account manager. When Pete was one of the senior partners, he decided, he would be happy to have Bob as his right-hand man. Bob was helpful and appropriately interested in interesting things like Pete, and even if he did have a sabotage streak, that could be used to turn on other people, as long as Pete stuck with him. "We could make quite the team," he found himself saying.

Bob was silent beside him, but Pete could tell he was listening intently, and rightly so.

"I mean," Pete said, turning over onto his back, "we're both very good, and I think we could be good together." He bumped into Bob's arm. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Bob breathed. "I know exactly what you mean." And he gripped Pete's upper arm and kissed him.

It took Pete a few seconds to work out what was happening, both because he was still thinking about work, and because Bob Benson was extremely good at kissing. In fact Pete found himself making an embarrassing whimper as Bob kissed him, and parted his lips gently, which was less embarrassing when Bob made a similar noise and pulled Pete under and towards him even more. Bob lifted his head for air. Pete found he was breathing very rapidly and he was very excited. Bob's hands were on his arm and shoulder, and Pete lifted his own hands to Bob's sides.  
Bob pulled away. "Oh," Pete said.

"No, don't," Bob said. "Just, let me-" He reached back for Pete, and his whole presence changed: he took a small breath and squared his shoulders, and enthusiastically if a little mechanically began to jerk him off. He was very skilled at this too. Pete was a little fuzzy-headed, but this felt good.

"Let me help you clean up," Bob whispered in Pete's ear, and got out of bed. He returned with a warm, damp washcloth and carefully wiped down both of them before he settled into his side of the bed, and Pete settled into a cozy, unchallenged sleep.

**

Pete woke up the next morning feeling very content, and it took him a few minutes to remember why. He was alone in bed and the shower was running. He felt much less happy now that he was alone. "I'm just going to make a phone call," he said. There was no answer from the bathroom, and Pete pulled on a dark red polo shirt and a pair of slacks and went downstairs.

He carried his head high as he strode briskly through the lobby and stepped into the phone booth, and dialled the number for SC&P New York with a firm hand.

"Sterling Cooper and Partners," Dawn answered.

"Thank God you're back," Pete said. "This is Pete calling from Boise, is Peggy in?"

"Good morning, Mr. Campbell!" Dawn said. "I'll see if Miss Olson is available."

Peggy picked up after a ring and a half. "Hello?"

"Are you alone?"

"Why?"

Pete rested his forehead against the phone booth. "I need to talk to you alone."

"Why?"

Christ, how was this difficult? Couldn't someone for one minute just not interrogate him about every damn thing in his life? "Peggy-" he said.

Pete heard her cover the mouthpiece of the phone and say, "Stan, can you-?" He looked up at the ceiling of the booth. The paint was peeling. Typical Midwesterners, couldn't be bothered looking after even their nice hotels. Pete would normally been annoyed, but right now he was too much in despair.

"Okay," Peggy said. "What happened?"

"I had sexual congress with Bob Benson last night."

Peggy's end of the line went quiet.

"Hello?" Pete said.

"I'm here." Her voice sounded very controlled, like when she was listening to an idea for a pitch and didn't want to show just how much she hated it. "What happened exactly?"

"I don't know!" Pete said. "We were drinking, and talking about prep school-"

"Oh, Pete," Peggy said.

"-and then we did some things with our hands." There was silence on the other end of the line. "Peggy?"

"Still here." Another pause. "So you didn't go, you know, all in?"

"Peggy Olson, if you make fun of me I'm going to walk down to the parking lot and kill myself and it will be all your fault."

"No you won't," she said. "And if you die I'm making partner. How do you feel about it?"

"Relaxed," Pete said. He thought. "And dehydrated."

"Relaxed is good," Peggy said. "I mean, for me, that's usually a good sign. Do you want to do it again?"

"What?"

"Do you want to do the hand things again?" She sounded like she was smiling, and there was a rustling noise; Pete guessed she was sitting down on the edge of her desk. "Anyway, what kind of hand things are we talking about here?"

Pete started to gesture before remembering he was on a phone and in public.

"Hand things, Peggy, just, things with our hands!"

"I think I get the picture. Or a picture." She was definitely smiling now. "What does Bob think?"

"He's in the shower."

Peggy mumbled something that sounded like, "I know that one."

"What?"

"If I were you I'd get him drunk and see what happens. He's a good-looking guy," Peggy said, and hung up.

**

Pete practiced driving all through the Cascades on the way to Portland, and Bob looked proud. When they checked into a hotel, he left Pete again to check in while he parked the car. The manager booked them for two double rooms and Pete pocketed the key to Bob's.

"Let's go up and see where we can drop our luggage," he said.

Bob hovered in the doorway of the room uncertainly while Pete set down his suitcase and opened the bar. "This is more like it," he said.

"Do you want to go out?" Bob said.

"Sure."

They had gin martinis in the hotel bar and Pete made sure Bob matched him. After three drinks and a small dinner they went upstairs. Pete held the door open for Bob, who gave him a strange look.

"Why don't you sit on the bed and I'll make you another drink," Pete said.

"Let me," Bob said.

"No, let me," Pete said.

Bob said on the edge of the bed. His lips were parted slightly in confusion, and Pete poured a whisky and Coke.

"We used to drink these at Deerfield, to cover the taste," Pete said. He watched Bob smile, and that was when he kissed him again.

After a few moments, Bob said, "Okay. I'm not sure what your plan is here, but - okay."

"What do you like?" Pete said. "I mean, what kind of...things are nice for you to...feel?"

"Well, what do you like?" Bob said.

"I know what I like!" Pete said. "That's not what I asked."

"I like doing things that you like," Bob said.

"No you don't!" Pete said. "Nobody likes that! They say they do, hell I say I do, but nobody can be totally selfless - is it sodomy?"

Bob had gone white. "I _never_ -" 

"I just don't know how these things work," Pete said.

"I don't know!" Bob said. "I don't _know_ what I like."

"Oh," Pete said.

"It's never been about what I like," he said.

"Oh."

"Please let me make you a martini," Bob said.

"No," Pete said. "Pete Campbell has never backed down from a challenge, and I certainly don't intend to start today."

**

"Well, that sounds like it went very well," Joan said, smiling. "I can't wait to hear all about it when you're back in New York. Which I hope is soon, by the way, Kevin's been asking about when he gets to see you again."

She was still smiling as she hung up the phone, then stopped.

"Oh God," she said. "I hope this doesn't mean Pete's coming to Christmas dinner."


End file.
